Speak Not A Word
by SyriMoon
Summary: Free from Alexis, but still chained to another. While Cassian struggles to keep them alive on the streets, Jizabel copes with his final decision on Judgment Day, an act of prideful defiance that left him homeless, orphaned, and without a voice.
1. Chapter 1

This is a work borne of two minds; mine, and Suni's. This was our first story, and one of our most beloved, despite having over 60 now.

Please enjoy!

)o(

The human body really was a truly remarkable piece of work. Though it housed within it a being not fit for life, a creature that disgusted Jizabel with its filthy urges, carnal lusts and insurmountable need for dominance and superiority, the physical form was to be admired. He adored the feel of cooling skin, the way his scalpel lagged only slightly, catching the resistance of finely toned muscles and membranes. And what lovely colors the body contained. No oils or tempera hues could ever quite replicate that deep glossy crimson of fresh, warm blood. It always turned out far too matte, too vivid, cartoonish.

But perhaps more astounding than the veins and intestines of a dead or dying man was the ways the body defended itself from unpleasnatries. The mind, he knew, played a large factor in this. More than anyone else, perhaps, Jizabel knew how the mind could convince one of almost any truth. And now he saw, when faced with something as jarring as a gunshot wound, the mind could whisper sweet lies to his nerves that no, he was not in pain. There was no damage, no major hemorrhaging. Nothing to feel suffering from. How much he had been molded by his father; his own brain picking up Alexis's sweet untruths.

The fall didn't even have enough force to break him from his shock, though he was sure it had broken something more physical. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness he knew he'd be in agony later. But he knew at the same time there would be no later.

All this rushed through his thoughts in just moments, and he scarcely had time to give each idea the attention it deserved, racing so quickly it matched the gravity that reached for him, drug him down to the solid marble floor below.

"Doctor!"

A barely heard cry, convincing him he had not lost all touch with awareness, but still there was no pain. Just a…a cold shock. He had fallen too quickly, jumped in front of his father too fast for his senses to catch him.

Perhaps…that was a mercy…

A strong pair of arms grabbed him practically the moment his body collided with the floor, and he felt [perhaps they were warm, strong, but he couldn't really tell.

"That's why I told you! It's useless to believe in him!" the same voice that had cried out to him as he tumbled now spoke in his ear, harsh and full of anger and…fear?

…Cassian?

Those broad hands, dirty as they were, pulled his thin frame closer, onto his lap.

"A man like that, Jizabel, has a heart nothing can reach!" How familiar this voice, admonishing him. So much deeper than the Cassian he had known for so long, but so unmistakably belonging to his former assistant. No one else had ever scolded him with such concern.

Jizabel let this man nestle him into his lap, holding…clinging to him. His larger body encircled his, seeming to shield him.

"I had already warned you. Look! He didn't even change expression after you saved his life!"

Jizabel turned his face skyward, straining to see whatever Cassian was seeing. Father…his beloved father, up on the balcony he had soared from. He wasn't even gracing him with a glance, not so much as a tilt of his eyes downwards towards his dying son. Perhaps he felt this was the place for him, he thought. On the ground, so far below him, so far below so many, just as he had raised him to believe he was.

But another man, he had his full attention. Even as it seemed the entire structure around them was crumbling, he scarcely looked away from the man he held, bleeding, in his arms. And though the room groaned and rumbled and heaved with the force of falling debris, Cassian too was the only thing that seemed solid to Jizabel as he lay dying.

Oh , he knew he was. A dozen years training as a physician left one with a cruel harshness of the reality of death. Though his clothes bore little blood, he knew his body was spilling it internally, and his organs would be so badly bruised and bashed fro his impact.

And he…he still felt no pain, but there was a creeping chill climbing up his fingers, the tips growing numb.

"Why…did you come back, Cassian?" Jizabel asked, sure he should be surprised by the lack of power in his voice. "With the veritable hell consuming the world outside…I'm frankly amazed that you returned…"

Another remark hung between them, unsaid by Jizabel though both knew it would be just like him to think it.

Why would you come back, when you'd so successfully escaped from me?

Cassian had no answer for him. Well, none that would satisfy the unstable doctor. His sick mind wouldn't be able to grasp such an abstract concept such as loyalty and devotion, though he himself was such a perfect display of it. Instead, he peeled away the painted scars he wore, and the wig, revealing his face as it should be, as it should have been for so many years.

A vague smile, more a grimace than not, colored Jizabel's paling face.

"I wasn't able to kill my father after all…even though I knew your words were true."

It was hard to tell whether his words were filled with remorse, or even a bit of relief that he couldn't do it. Couldn't take the life of the man who had robbed him of his, so many long years before he lay dying.

"I appears that I couldn't betray my own nature/"

Sweat began to form on his skin, making it grow cold and clammy under Cassian's touch. How…how could he appear so calm? So accepting? While it was true Jizabel had never been one to fear the act of dying itself, as he'd seemed so often to be willing to throw his breath away, he knew beyond that, there was a fear of death, or what lay after dying.

Jizabel knew what likely awaited him after this. He could almost feel the flames licking along his skin already. All those years, all he had memorized, the recitation as fathers corded whip crashed onto his bare back. The wrath of God.

Somehow, the same block that kept the pain at bay (though the room was growing so cold…) seemed to keep him from processing anything so tumultuous. Neither of them did, it seemed.

Cassian's arms surrounded his shoulders, tugging purposefully at his tie and discarding it with a flick, and turning to unbutton his shirt.

Jizabel sighed softly as Cassian tugged his lapels apart, away from his throat, and busied his hands instead with stroking down the side of his face. It was as though he too realized the severity of this situation and wished him to pass comfortably. Somewhere in his numb chest, this…warmed Jizabel, somewhat, with what little ability to feel gratitude and compassion as his broken emotions possessed.

'I suppose if I'm hellbound,' he thought, and even the voice in his own mind was soft, 'it's only fitting that my last moments should be so peaceful.'

"Yes, that's very typical of you, to do something so foolish" he agreed, for Jizabel was nothing if not heavily rooted in habit, latching to what was familiar and calling it comfort. "I suppose now…all I can do is watch over you, in your final moments."

"Heh," Jizabel's smile lightened so slightly. Cassian spoke so gently to hi now…"I remember how you always use to scold me."

He reached up, and Cassian could see the tremble rising in his limbs. Finally his fingers fell to the black cross that hung always, always, around his neck. A precious gift from his father, treasured beyond anything else that Jizabel owned. He couldn't remember a time he wasn't wearing it. Even if he had it tucked away under his clothes, it was always there, lying against bare skin. Cassian suspected he loved it all the more that way.

With what little strength Jizabel had, he clenched the sigil in his fist and gave it one sharp wrench, breaking the clasp with a faint snap. Cassian's eyes widened slightly as he didn't hold it to himself, as he expected, but rather held it out to the butler.

"Riff, please. Give this to Cain," he asked, discarding this memento with scarcely a thought. "I'm sure that he'll be able to do what I never could…"

He'll be able to kill Alexis. To rid the two of them of the man who had robbed them of their lives, of their childhoods, their freedom, and for Jizabel, his sanity. It was all because of Alexis that Jizabel had ended up the man he was, that Cain had become so aloof and sheltered. He was the one who scarred their backs with his whip. True, one saw his marks with hatred, the other with thanks, but it had marked them, damaged them, deeper than either could know. And Jizabel could now understand that…at least a small part of himself could.

'How funny. I see my past the clearest when the world in front of me is fading'

He looked back up at Riff, at his crumbling appearance, and wondered if he himself appeared so frail

"But you're health is also fading," he noted contemplatively, his hand scuttling awkwardly across his chest in search of his breast pocket, and what was contained therein. "Your loyalty annoys e even now. You fought us the entire way, getting stronger with each passing year because of that dedication…"

Riff knelt just at Jizabel's reach, still holding the cross in his hand, the one placed so trustingly in his hold.

"Doctor…please!" he pleaded. "I need more time, to protect Lord Cain, your brother!" None of them commented on how foolish it seemed, to plead for Cain's life in this manner to Jizabel, who had regarded his half sibling with nothing but hatred since the age of 12. "Surely there must be a way."

Ah, there it was. The cold slim handle feeling perfectly weighted in his finger, Jizabel withdrew his scalpel from his pocket. Though his vision was starting to blur, the glint from the sleek blade's surface shone brightly to his eyes.

"Yes…there is a way," he breathed and held the instruments deadly tip to his lips, though somehow the risk of a small slice didn't exactly scare him now. "But you will only live for one more day."

As though that would deter him, and Jizabel knew it.

He could feel Cassian's grip on his shoulders clench at his words. His apprentice, his underling, he would know better than anyone else what Riff needed.

"Only one last day," he stressed, that familiar taunting tone rolling off his tongue, though so airy now, weak. "Will you still use this last day to serve him?"

"Even if it's just for an hour, I would!" he afirmed passionately. Just as Jizabel knew he would. Just as Jizabel would for his father.

He let his eyes slide closed; how nice that felt. He hadn't realized how weary and heavy they felt until they were closed, as though ready to fall asleep. And, in a way…he was.

"Then…so be it."

He drew the blade to his throat, and the feel of steel against his shivering skin thrilled him. Control. That's what this was. An excited shiver ran up his spine, and he felt Cassiann hold him even more closely, fearing, no doubt, that he was cold. But no; warmth was creeping back up through his body, despite the blood running from it. Was it from the excitement of knowing his last action would not be in the service of Alexis, his father, who had truly killed him years ago? That his life wouldn't be given for him? Or perhaps…it had more to do with those arms draped so protectively around him, not wanting these minutes to be spent alone and in pain…

How silly of Cassian…he felt no pain now. Not now. And where he was going, he had no ability to shelter him.

"This is my last remaining blood. Use it wisely, Riffael," he commanded, perhaps the most domineering he could remembering being, but for something so important.

If Cassian was horrified, if he wished to stop him, to drag the scalpel from his weak grip, he made no notion of it. Perhaps he knew how important this was to Jizabel, to finally have one act of defiance, one choice, a final selection, made entirely of free will, and not moved by his father's puppet strings.

Jizabel didn't feel the blade, but he felt the heat splatter down his chest, droplets peppering his face, his hands, and prayed he had enough to give Riff those last final hours he had promised.

Blood. So essential from life, it was often the only thing that gave Jizabel any sense of living. But now, the warmth it offered, that had wrapped him in a comforting embrace that night, felt sickeningly cool, not at all like he remembered. But he wondered, feeling Cassian's arms seize around him, felt his lips pressed to his hair, if that wasn't just in comparison to a different warmth.

He was sure the wet splatters he felt down onto his cheeks, his brow, was not from his blood.

'Now, of all times. When it's too late to do anything for it,' his mind grew so disjointed. 'To me, love in this world was nothing but a fabrication, a cruel act I was never allowed to be a part of. Love never seemed to exist for me, Riffael. So I grew to hate you, and Cain, for the bond you shared…'

He couldn't breathe…

'And all this time, I felt I was alone-'

A hand clenched his, so cold. Or what it his own that felt like ice? He couldn't be sure now. Another hand, at his throat, and a pressure.

'Always alone, no matter how hard I sought. But perhaps…what I was searching for all this time was simply not in the form I expected.'

He couldn't see Cassian anymore. Was he still there? He had to be. No one else had ever held him so tenderly. No one else had shook like he was now when they saw him suffer. Not father, never father. Father was long gone. But Cassian was here. He had always been there…

'And…already within my grasp…!'

He wanted to grip his hand back; voiceless, sightless, he wished to let Cassian know he could feel him, knew he was there, but he couldn't find the strength.

But no matter. He somehow was sure, he already knew.

'Now I truly know, Cassian…that you're the one who saved me.'

How comforting was unconsciousness, the way it snuck behind you with warm, soothing corners to eventually wrap around and hold you tight, like a mother taking her beloved child in from the cold and ensnaring them in a favorite worn quilt. He welcomed it, let it take him, wishing for it to blind and deafen him further, to muffle his breath, which was already so hard to draw. Perhaps if he accepted this with enough grace, it could shield him from what was soon awaiting him; Jizabel in any more a state for logical thinking would scoff at this hope now.

As the deep blackness drew him in deeper, he couldn't help but be sure it was Cassian's arms that blessed him with these final seconds of peace before eternity claimed him as its own.

)o(

It only took moments, precious short moments, and for this Cassian was thankful. Though it was shredding at his stomach and making him feel more ill than he could ever recall being, he'd spent the long minutes since Jizabel's fall just praying that his death would be quick and as painless as it could be. And as soon as he saw him raise the gleaming blade to his throat, he knew it would be.

The thought horrified him, and he thought for a moment about prying the scalpel from his fingers as he moved to slice across his own throat. To see Jizabel so easily offer up his last moments was only proof about how little he cared for his own existence.

Or perhaps, he thought, clinging to Jizabel's now still body, one hand still at his throat in what was surely a futile attempt to stem the bleeding; it was his first and final declaration of freedom, the only indication he could give to say his life was his own, it was precious and worth something and his alone to give.

Somehow Cassian seemed to always know suicide would claim the doctor; there wasn't any other carriage death would drive to collect him, unless it had been driven by Alexis. Even then, Jizabel had just shown with full flair that he'd have willingly given his breath for his father.

Was it really murder, when the lamb came to the knife so willingly?

His chest ached, and he let out a long shudder he hadn't realized he'd been holding. To take his own life may have been the boldest thing Cassian had ever witnessed Jizabel do. Instead of being the cowards way out, an escape for the weak and broken (how highly befitting Jizabel) it became a voice for Jizabel to say in death what he could never bring himself to say while living.

Riff still knelt there, seemingly torn between grim horror and gratitude as Jizabel's blood cooled on his skin.

Cassian almost felt like growling at him.

"Well? Go! Go save him! If you waste even one drop of his blood, I swear, I'll never forgive you!"

Though Riff had little reason to fear Cassian, the latter being far too distraught to pursue a fight or chase, he nodded and clamered to his feet, running full kilt around the fallen rubble and debris and leaving a scattering of red prints of puddles as he went.

Cassian, meanwhile, had something of a far different matter to attend. He had no one left to save, only someone to tend to.

Jizabel was thin and light in his newly strong arms. Though Jizabel was not one to take affection from him, there had been occasions where the boy's mental state and emotional baggage became too heavy fro his shoulders to carry, and he would break again, too distraught or frightened to push Cassian away, and he would hold him in his small arms. Jizabel had never appeared overwhelming muscled or capable, but to Cassian's childish size, he was sturdy.

Holding hi now, he knew he was amazingly wrong. Jizabel was thin, from his self restricted diet and, undoubtedly, the same mass amount of stress that had grayed his hair so young. He was light and seemed to take up such little space in the basket Cassian made of his arms.

While Riff turned to save the man he still served, Cassian faced the dreadful knowledge that he'd arrived too late.

He'd promise to come back and save him, to take him away form his father. He'd promised HIMSELF that he wouldn't let Jizabel continue to rot away in the service of Delilah, as nothing ore than a pet for his father.

But he'd failed. He'd failed his superior in a way much more grievous manner than simply letting the butler get away, or failing to collect a particular trinket. No, Jizabel paid for this one far more dearly than with the sting of his father's whip.

There was so much noise in the distance beyond the now ruined building that had been his…home, of sorts for so long, but they were so far off and muffled. Still, Cassian felt sure he would have been able to walk the boy through a hall still brimming with people and still not heard a word said. He'd have been far too dazed, just as he was now.

He scarcely watched his step, a truly dangerous choice of walking with chunks of stone and plaster littering the floor. He'd glance forward enough to make sure he wouldn't take a tumble, not while carrying something so very precious. Life had jostled and marred Jizabel enough.

The deeper he walked within the winding hallways, seeking out a back passage, the more muffled the din above them became, being gently quelled by the heavy stone walls still remaining, if only tenuously. Hell, the entire structure may tumble down on them both at any moment.

He wasn't sure if he would care much, really. He supposed his only regret would be not being able to return Jizabel to the home he'd once loved, the only place he'd ever been really, truly happy.

His boots shuffled along, their echoes dim, noticeable only by the comparative silence surrounding them. Not another noise, by now.

Save one.

Cassian halted his pace, and instantly held Jizabel's still body closer, as though he was still in need of his subordinate's ever present protection. He peered around wearily, sure that he'd heard someone, despite his former belief that they were the only one's still within these cavernous hallways.

But he heard something different entirely, not the brisk tread of footfalls that had reached his ears only moments ago. Faintly, a grating, wet hiss, too quiet even to echo.

He turned as quickly as his burden would allow, holding Jizabel even tighter. Emptiness. Nothing in the corridor but plaster dust on the floor.

He was ready to just chalk his paranoia up to his falling morale, , when it whispered into his ear a third time.

Jizabel was breathing. Barely, slowly, hardly noticeable, but his lips parted slightly in a struggle to draw in another breath.

Cassian couldn't be sure if it was horror or hope that surged his heartbeat, making it pound so hard against his ribcage he wondered if a bruised organ would be a very startling reality in the near future for him.

"J-jizabel!" he gasped, and sunk to his knees to take a second, closer look at him. Of course he didn't respond; he was still deep in the folds of unconsciousness, but his mind wasn't deceiving him; his chest rose once in a sputter and collapsed, no doubt taking in as much blood s air.

Something sparked a panic within Cassian, one that even in his adrenaline-surged brain could process immediately as being barely more substantial than a dream upon waking; it may be a reality, but a fleeting one, to quickly fade.

He was breathing. He was still alive. But surely for moments only, no longer. He had bled too heavily, the evidence still covered himself, Cassian and Riff, in the minute and a half since he had dug the blade into his skin. The hopeful spring that had begun to well and bubble in his gut almost instantly went dry. What difference did it mater if Jizabel had a few final heartbeats left? There was still nothing to be done, not with bleeding so profuse, his lungs most likely already shutting down as dribbles of blood continued to fill them. In fact, this revelation enraged Cassian far ore than it encouraged him to cling to a foundationless hope. All this meant was an even longer goodbye, more time watching the man he couldn't save slowly asphyxiate to death. Couldn't the bastard at least have a merciful death, where life had done nothing but torture him?

"God damn it Jizabel, why can't you just let go?" he demanded harshly. Grief for a man not yet dead ground his voice low and rough, a fact he berated himself for. Surely is Jizabel could, maybe, hear him, it should be nothing but sweet, tender words to reach his ears.

Lank strands of hair lay drying against his throat, normally pale gray waves, now stiff and stained red. He brushed his bangs aside as best he could, though sweat and blood held his mass of hair together in a large tangled nest.

"What the hell could you have left to keep you here? What are you holding onto, you sonofabitch?" hadn't Cassian always spoken to Jizabel with callous scolding? Surely for a man who thrived on the familiar and routine, anything but this would be to jarring for his dying body.

The younger man drew another breath, as sputtering and ill-taken as the last, far too much time between each. Cassian felt heat building at the back of his throat, swearing all the way up to his eyes, but he refused to cry. He wouldn't, not until after he was sure that Jizabel was…gone.

"Please, Jizabel. Just…just rest now. You need to t-"

BANG!

Immediately Cassian threw himself over Jizabel's weak and cold form protectively, taking the jarring racket as another section of the once towering edifice crashing down into rubble. But when the seconds passed and there was no reverberations, no sections fo limestone or granite crushing their bones, he looked around, seeking the true source of the commotion.

It wasn't another explosion, or even any final remnants of what had already occurred. Rather, the cause of his initial panic was much…smaller.

Zenopia was lumbering down the corridor at an impressive speed for someone of his height, particularly considering the sizeable burden he was hauling. He was maneuvering a steamer trunk large enough that he could probably easily have used it as a hideaway, and judging from his struggles, it was packed. With what, Cassian couldn't be quite sure, but knowing the way the hermit's mind worked, he had a clue.

And suddenly Cassian felt his entire foundation slipping once more, the ground he knelt on seeming to slide together again, closing the chasm if only by inches.

Spurred by a barely lit flame flickering in his chest, Cassian hurriedly unbound one of his many layers, a thin scarf wrapped behind his neck, decided in tat instant that Jizabel needed it more. He knew even as he bound it over Jizabel's throat that it was effort borne of foolhardiness and emotional exhaustion, but there was a chance…

"You! Zenopia!" he bellowed, leaving no chance that the hermit could even pretend he didn't hear.

The doctor, already looking shaken and disheveled, gave an even more distressed sputter as he was forced to acknowledge Cassian' yelling.

"C-Cassian! Well, how wonderful you look!" he fidgeted awkwardly, eyes casting around in a most unusually paranoid manner, and never taking his hands off the trunk, which just reaffirmed Cassian's suspicions.

Though reluctant to take even those five paces away from Jizabel, Cassian had no time whatsoever to waste with second guessing. He strode up to the midget and his trunk, now knowing full well what it contained. Even if it could buy them a chance, a small sliver of hope…well, he'd take it.

)o(

Please, drop a line! 


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks for reading, y'all. I appreciate all the feedback I get.

To Mystical- To tell the truth, it just never seemed suspicious to me. Many members of Delilah were around for the last day, so why not Zenopia? It always made sense to us that Alexis, having privy to the greatest medical achievements in the world, would always make sure they were available to him at any time needed, so to us, it isn't too illogical why he would request to have one of Delilah's doctors present during events. He has his bodyguard nearby at most times, after all, so to us, it's the same concept. And Jizabel doesn't count; I doubt he'd trust his life to his errant bastard. A bit into this chapter, you'll see a reference to medications being developed for the soul purpose of ensuring the Cardmaster's survival, which is essentially the reason why in this and several of our stories yet unposted, Zenopia or another physician can be found in Alexis's presence.

In any case, I hope you find that an acceptable explanation. I do apologize for the confusion- the two of us at times get so deep into our own canon, that we can often forget that things that have become part of our basic understanding of the series are actually nonexistent within the books themselves!

Shall we?

)o(

Cassian had been apprenticing under Jizabel for almost a year before his surgery. Well, an apprenticeship may not have been the best word, but assistant didn't suit him much better, he was more like Jizabel's gopher, his lackey, especially at first. He was an errand boy and little more, and he knew it. However, being in Jizabel's almost constant company for that time, he'd picked up scraps of medical jargon, cast off conversations about blood types and immunities that at the time had meant nothing, but had all the same managed to weasel a permanent place into his memory. He had little reason to recall anything of Jizabel's research, so long as he delivered the freshest bodies on time, but he couldn't help learning a little. Thus he knew, beyond doubt, that there would be something in that trunk that could save him.

"Open it," he barked, with an authority to his voice that was still foreign to hear. Before, his attempts at assertiveness would be heard through the lips, the tongue of a child, and would thus ring high and whiny, resembling a tantrum more than a valid argument. But Cassandra was tall and broad and his voice rumbled deep.

He watched the dwarf visible cringe, though he wasn't going to pin it entirely on his own power. He still bore Cassandra's face, his body, and Gladstone was nothing if not powerful, a fact Cassian often wished he could extort more. SO now that he had a reason to use it, he took advantage. "I said open it, now!"

"Now, Cassian, this is hardly the time for this! The building's going to crash down at any moment now!"

The building wasn't gone yet; it was a sturdy structure. It would surely tumble, but they had time.

Growing brave with his panic, Cassian grabbed hold of the front of Zenopias labcoat, and lurched him to the tips of his toes.

"You listen here, doc," he growled. "I don't know what kind of strange elixirs and medications you and Jizabel cooked up together, but I caught enough over this past year to know you've got something in there that can save him! What good does years of science do if it can't even benefit its own creator?"

As bulletproof an argument as he felt that was, he could see the skepticism saturating Zenopia's face, and he knew why. Jizabel, despite having such a high rank and possessing, in theory, quite a good deal of power within Delilah, the truth was his authority was amazingly hindered. Everyone knew it too, that his power reached very short, and never far from under daddy's shadow. So it was no wonder why Zenopia felt no requirement to help; If Alexis wasn't already dead he would be soon, and then what reason would they have to keep from kicking the animal? Even Zenopia, who wasn't as cruel as the others could be, was as selfish as anyone.

"Cassian, please listen to reason!" his eyes flickered over to Jizabel, so still, unmoving, but Cassian's sharp eyes could see the slight and labored sputtering of his chest. "The boy will be dead in a few minutes. Best thing you can do for him is to just sit with him while he-"

"He is not going to die!" and in a rageful fit, he gave the trunk the sharpest kick he could manage, and would have sent it tumbling if Zenopia hadn't thrown his whole weight into saving it. Truth be told; it obviously was packed full of valuables.

Breathing a heavily relieved sigh, Zenopia gave a look upwards, making a note of the rumbling walls. None of them had much time now.

Cassian noted this, and the skittish waay he looked longingly down the passageway.

"Listen," his voice shook. "If you help me, we'll all get out of here fast. I'll take you with me; I have a secluded place to stay. Help me save him, and I'll offer you shelter."

The doctor looked increasingly distressed; bits of plaster were falling down and peppering the floor. Obviously, Cassian had overshot how much time they had left. But Zenopia knew there was no way he could outrun Cassian, not with his new body.

He gave a long suffering whine, and began to fumble through his pockets, pulling out a ring of keys before instantly selecting a familiar black one. His hands shook as he fitted it into the trunks lock, and Cassian could hardly hold it against him; he too was riddled with anxiety, but not so much over the collapsing building. Jizabel had minutes, maybe.

Inside the trunk was more bottles and jars than Cassian felt possible to cram into i's interior. He'd been right about his initial hunch; it was full of an assortment of both the most practical and most sensational of their trials.

The doctor all but disappeared into the trunk and he quickly rooted for a specific bottle; the one he withdrew was as unremarkable as the next. Slightly cloudy, grayish-white, and no real odor to speak of as he uncorked it.

"Well, help me! Undo that diseased scrap! You want that wound getting infected?"

Cassian jumped to comply, perturbed but not insulted as much as he could be. He knew it wasn't very safe, wrapping his filthy scarf around an open wound, but it was a choice of risking infection if he did and assuring death by bloodloss if he didn't.

He unwrapped it, as Zenopia liberally doused the wound with the cloudy liquid. He watched transfixed as the running blood seemed to almost curdle and congeal before his eyes, stemming the wound.

"Coagulating agent," he said vaguely to a curious Cassian. "Taken directly from blood. Suppose to help clotting disorders."

'Or save a man from an assassination attempt,' he thought, knowing over the years there had to be at least one attempt on Alexis's life. Why else would something like this exist in a place where they'd rather work on brain transplants?

Whatever. He didn't care, really. Just did as he was told, and help Jizabel's head still as he poured a little down his throat; they couldn't be sure how deeply he'd cut. And if Zenopia wondered at all about the wound, or how it came to be inflicted, he said nothing, only used the last of the bottle on the hole in his chest.

"You do understand, Cassian," he began carefully, not wanting a kick aimed at himself this time, "that this is no guarantee? He seems to have already lost a great deal of blood. And the risk of infection-"

He shrugged off Zenopias words, not wanting to hear them, not wanting to think about getting Jizabel to safety, only to realize all he'd done is prolong a suffering death. He couldn't harbor the idea of being responsible for something like that. Instead, he scooped Jizabel, limp and cold, far too cold, into his arms. Outside would be warm, the sun might still be up even. That would warm him. And down in his caverns, he'd make a small fire, lie him next to it, cover him well…

If only he could survive that long. He had to. He had too much to say to him.

)o(

The damage was as extensive as he'd hoped it wasn't. It was a difficult exam, with, as Zenopia put it, sub-humane medical conditions, but it was a sewer, what the bloody hell else was he expecting?

Cassian watched, as he did what he could. He boiled saltwater and rubbed each instrument Zenopia brought out with copious amount of rubbing alcohol, in a possibly vein attempt to make the environment at least suitably antiseptic.

Zenopia told him very simply he wasn't interested in finding sanctuary in London's cesspools, and his desire to leave was evident by the quick job he was making. Or maybe it was more a testimate to how low he was counting Jizabel's chances for survival. All Cassian could do was follow Zenopia's sporadic orders, and otherwise sit out of the way, holding Jizabel's lax hand and combing back his hair.

All the while, he felt Zenopia's eyes wandering up to examine him also as scrupulously as he was Jizabel's throat, and Cassian couldn't blame him, He'd be staring as well, if the roles were reversed. Hell, even he wasn't sure, at that moment, what to make of this compulsion to sooth his former superior…but he knew somehow, at some point, he'd become more to him than an employer of sorts. Just what that was, he couldn't be sure…just a few months ago, he'd have been having a spitting match with an awake doctor, pointing out his character flaws at every whim. And God knew he couldn't wait to lay into him hard for this latest of insanely stupid stunts, but it did no good to scream at someone who couldn't scream back. There was time enough for that later.

"You know, Cassian. Jizabel probably isn't going to thank you for this, if he lives."

"He WILL live," was Cassian knee-jerk response, intently keeping his gaze on Jizabel's currently relaxed features, restful in unconsciousness.

"Yes. Well. In any case, had that even occurred to you, Cassian?" he asked, as he finally seemed to finish what he could he, and threaded a needle.

Cassian winced slightly; the thought of someone stitching such tender, thin skin made him more than uneasy. "Why wouldn't he? He'll be angry at first, but you weren't there, at the end. You wouldn't understand. You don't know him like I do."

"And how well do YOU know him, Cassian?" He enquired, eyes glancing up briefly before gouging his needle into Jizabel's throat. Cassian clenched Jizabel's hand tightly, as though to comfort him. Though he chose to ignore him, that didn't deter Zenopia in the least. "Listen, Cassian. This damage is extensive. If-IF-Jizabel wakes, I don't think he's going to be very pleased with the state he's in."

"I'll tend to him," Cassian whispered. "I'll take care of him. He'll get better."

"Only so much."

Finally Cassian glared. "And what's that suppose to mean?"

"Think, boy!" Zenopia snapped, uncharacteristically moody. "You think you can go slicing into your throat with a scalpel and not do permanent damage? He sliced clean through his larynx; both his vocal chords are bowed."

Cassian paused his brushing of Jizabel's blood-caked hair, to study the doctor closely for a moment. "I don't understand, what does that mean?"

"It means," said Zenopia, going back to his work with a gusto, obviously pleased to have Cassian's attention. "That he's probably not going to be thanking you when he wakes. Or berating you. Or saying much of anything. Ever."

Cassian suddenly could feel no difference between the cold flesh of Jizabel's hand and the once warm skin on his own. He felt the warmth flush from his face, drain from his chest, leaving him to shiver once in the molding sewer.

"Wh-what are you saying? That Jizabe''s going to wake up mute?"

Zenopia just pulled the thread through another patch of Jizabels skin, and gave a far too chipper nod, obviously pleased that her was being listened to now.

"If his vocal chords are paralyzed, he won't have much a voice to speak of. Definitely nothing above a hoarse whisper, and that's best case scenario. And Don't get me started on the breathing troubles!" 

Cassian tried to block out the words, suddenly wishing to be as wonderfully obvlivious to the horror and gore as the patient himself was. Jizabel lie so peacefully, so deeply unconscious. Ashen pale, but under the gray and blue, there was pink tingeing once more. His finger tips and lips were no longer pale, but becoming rosy again, from the fire and the layers and layers of blankets piled on him.

A moment later, Cassian wished he hadn't done such a thorough job. He thought he imagined the twitching of fingers, that it was his own shocked muscles just spasming, but he couldn't wish away the flutter of eyelashes he saw next.

He felt his body grow even more numb, from horror more than shock this time.

"Zenopia…" he whispered as faintly as possible, receiving a bemused 'hmm?' in response. "He isn't…waking, is he?"

Such sensationalism was all it seems to take to get the dwarfe's attention. He looked up, in time to see Jizabel's blonde lashes flutter again, then clench violently tight.

"Well, sure seems it. Musta got the blood stopped just in time. I knew those protein derivatives were effective!"

Cassian, however, had no time to marvel about the wonders of modern Delilah science. He was too busy watching the boy with panic filling his chest as his light eyes finally peaked open a sliver, only to then snap closed with a scream.

Or he assumed that's what Jizabel was trying to do. His mouth was open, and usually pretty face twisted and pinched horrifically.

"Jizabel!" the name came out breathy as a gasp, as he dropped forward to bring himself as close to him as possible. "No, no, Jizabel, go back to sleep!"

Behind him he heard Zenopia, as unhurried as ever, digging through that trunk again, and he prayed it was morphine he was searching for.

Shaking thumbs reached up to tenderly brush the tears streaming down Jizabel's cheeks, and Cassian was beside himself with panic, watching Jizabel's semi-conscious state in so much pain.

"Just…just lie still, Jizabel!" he shushed, leaning down further and pressing his forehead to Jizabel's. "Zenopia's getting something to help, so just rest…Jesus Christ, only you would insist on being awake for your own surgery, you complete idiot!"

He doubted Jizabel could hear him. Even if he could, what good were a few pretty, empty words when you awoke to someone stitching your gaping throat shut? He just prayed he wasn't lucid enough to truly know what was going on, only to feel the pain. Though that was bad enough in itself, he hoped to spare Jizabel the horror of the situation. It was grisly enough to see as a third party.

Zenopia was at his side a moment later, quickly dousing a spot on his arm with alcohol before deftly sliding in the needle. Cassian continued to shush him, smooth his hand down his cheek as he whispered small murmuring words.

It couldn't have been more than 3 minutes before Jizabel's already gnarled and choking breath finally began to find rhythm again. Slowly his face relaxed, the deeply grooved wrinkles smoothed out as the medication took effect.

Cassian's own breath released in a rush. He gasped once more, and tried to calm himself as Jizabel was now calm. If only he took had the aid of opiates.

Zenopia seemed completely unfazed as he finished the black row of neat, tiny stitches, and with Jizabel now deeply under once more, Cassian was the only one left in the dingy, poorly lit sewer that seemed to be suffering from any distress. Indeed, just a few minutes later, as the doctor was packing up his tools and wiping his hands clean, he seemed almost chipper, though Cassian suspected this was more for the fact that he could now get the hell out of there without fear of repercussion from the stronger of them.

Without a word, he pulled his coat tight around him again, as it was now dark and cold with evening fog, and left at Cassian's side a syringe and a rather generous bottle of morphine.

"Thank you," Cassian murmurs under his breath, not even looking at Zenopia as he gave that small token of appreciation. Behind him, he sensed Zenopia pause.

"There's enough there to last about a week," he said offhandedly. "Or, more than enough to show the boy a small mercy, if you can let go of your selfishness long enough to think about him in all this."

Before Cassian could even let it sink it, what he meant, Zenopia was well on his way, his small, quick footsteps and the scraping of his steamer trunk becoming more and more distant, fading, and leaving in its wake one of the loneliest feelings Cassian had ever experienced.

)o(

Once again, thank you for reading, and please, do drop a line!


	3. Chapter 3

Though London was well into the heart of summer up on the surface, the warmth of the sun and street had no hope of reaching the underground passages where Cassian had set up home. Layers of hay and as many blankets as he could safely smuggle had been his best fight against the constant chill, but they were pitiful weapons against the cold. Lighting a fire held its dangers; with no ventilation it wouldn't take very long to begin to asphyxiate from the smoke, and if he lost control of it, the narrow passages would not aid his attempts to escape, especially with Jizabel. He'd allowed it from necessity while Zenopia worked, but now that he'd left, the dangers were just too overwhelming.

Still, he did what he could. A very small flame licked at the dark, frosted air, contained both by Cassian's prayers and a circle of water soaked rags all about it. The heat it gave was meager, but the warm amber glow was pleasing to the eyes. Comforting, hypnotizing dances and [ale tendrils of smoke could lull the mind and fool it into believing the room to be warmer than it was.

Cassian knew it wasn't enough though. A pretty trick of glimmering light and self-imposed deceit wouldn't stop Jizabel from becoming ill from the cold. A stronger man could take the damp and the mildew and the frost, but his houseguest wasn't in the best of health right now, and a fever would do nothing to nurse him. He needed to find a better home. Something warmer and, he thought, watching another cricket scuttle around the corners, more sanitary.

"What am I going to do with you, Jizabel?" he murmured, turning to study his room mate. Between the small flame, and the oil lanterns he'd lit with much trepidation, he could still only barely make out Jizabel's features. The most the lamps did was stain his pale hair a dark, pumpkin orange. Or perhaps that was the drying blood. He couldn't be sure.

Jizabel couldn't be bothered to respond. He was too deep into unconsciousness to care about Cassian's anxiety. Course, he would probably react the same way awake. He could just envision his superior with a haughty attitude, far above any need to sympathize with the issues of a trump card. Raised in nobility and opulence, despite his birth, Jizabel would no doubt turn his nose up at what Cassian seemed to think were passable living conditions. Never once, of course, would he have stopped to consider that maybe a sewer without Alexis' beatings was better than a lavish bedroom suite with them.

Cassian scuttled a bit closer to the fire, noting vaguely that it was starting to wither, and scrubbed his hands together. Even if Jizabel did, against all odds, wake now and deem his rag-bed as comfortable as his large four-poster, Cassian couldn't allow him to stay. He deserved better than the den of rats and spiders large enough to make Cassian just a tad uncomfortable. He needed clean air, sunlight, fresh water, none of which he could get down here.

The decision, though, didn't solve the problem. Where could he go? Where could he take Jizabel? In a manner of speaking, both were wanted men, and Jizabel's looks were rather…distinct. If he survived this, what then? Leave the country? Go into hiding together? His stomach churned sour. What if Jizabel had no intention of staying with Cassian? Alexis was gone, Delilah was left in ruins, yet still, Jizabel could decide to leave…

Cassian snorted, now close enough to the flames for that small gust to ruffle the embers. He was a fool to even be trying to think so far ahead. Zenopia left just two hours ago, and Jizabel wouldn't likely survive the night. What use could it be to either of them to dejectedly dwell on an event that couldn't happen for several weeks to come?

The weight of his situation pulled down heavily on Cassian's hunched shoulders, and he couldn't be bothered to move. He didn't have the will right now. All he felt the desire to do was sit here, soaking in the meager heat offered by the flames, and let his mind blank. He didn't want to think about having to move, find a new home. Jizabel might wake soon, slipping from under the heavy weight of morphine. He'd want water then, and need something to eat. Broth, probably. He didn't have anything to make broth, or oatmeal, or any of the other soft foods Jizabel could handle right now. He'd been living mostly off of potatoes and leaks, and the thought of having to go and steal riskier foods didn't appeal to Cassian.

Yesterday, Cassian fantasized about playing hero of sorts, grabbing the brat and running him to safety whether he wanted to leave or not. He knew he'd thank him eventually. But it wasn't suppose to be like this. He wasn't prepared for this, to have to halt everything and play nursemaid. Jizabel's injuries were…severe, to be blunt. He'd cut clear through his trachea, slit his esophagus, and severed the nerves rubbing to his vocal cords. He didn't know of anyone who could so fucking botch their own suicide attempt. All that damage, and he'd still clung to life long enough to be saved. Perhaps even his own flesh couldn't handle the idea of leaving his beloved father.

Anger always bubbled to the surface when Alexis played across his mind, especially with Jizabel so near. He could just hear Jizabel asking for his father upon waking…then an awkward shudder shook him. No, Jizabel wouldn't be asking for Alexis. He doubted if he'd ever be able to say his own name now. Zenopia said he'd done what he could, but nerve damage wasn't possible to fix in a sewer. That was why he'd been so clipped with him, Cassian knew. Sure, Jizabel might live, but with such a severe and lasting injury…

And now Cassian himself was paying the same price, having by default nominated himself to be the one to tend to Jizabel. In a way, he would accept the charge without hesitation. Jizabel was…important to him. Emotions Cassian wasn't sure how to name yet compelled him to keep near. Yet on the other hand, a sense of unfairness kept his parenting instincts at bay. This. Was. Not. Planned. He hadn't prepared to have to take care of Jizabel like this…but he had to, and he knew it. He'd saved him, now he was responsible for him.

Numbly he rose to his feet, not giving much thought to the matter as he slipped off his outer shawl. Though already snuggled under 8 layers of cloaks, blankets and rags, Jizabel still shivered. Cassian couldn't blame him, he too was freezing, but he needed the extra cloth more. Jizabel didn't even stir as he folded the cloth and cradled it around his head, wrapping it with his blood stiff hair to try and layer some form of barrier. As he worked, he let his hands dip softly over his brow, relieved when he felt no fever. Yet, anyway.

He was anxious, leaving Jizabel on his own down there. Looters and thieves were common among his newfound "people", those like himself with no real home. But what other options did he have, really? He couldn't carry him topside to travel with him, and he couldn't stay down there with Jizabel. Food, water, a place to live, all necessities…

He'd just have to hurry. Stifle the resentment and unfairness he felt at the situation, and just focus on the task at hand. Food, something he'd need regardless of Jizabel's health.

It was newly dawn now, Zenopia had taken longer to help than Cassian had estimated. It would suffice, though. The market would just be opening, and most stalls would soon be thronged with customers, ladies wanting to do their shopping early to avoid having to face the heat in their dozen-layer dresses.

Already the dirt-laden smell of outer London's streets was being masked by a perfume of hot soups, roasting chickens and vegetables put on to fry. Cassian's mouth watered; it had been so long since he'd savored dishes like these. Delilah kept him well fed, but in the underground, he had to make due with far less. Vegetables were easiest to steal, and hot food was much harder. Meat was near impossible, unless he could sneak the trimmings. The butcher's front stall offered hams and whole roasts, trimming pieces and fat to order. He was a lazy butcher, though, with failing eyesight, and often left decent chunks of meat left on the gristle he trimmed.

This was a peasants market, nowhere near the upper crust squares of the city, so someone dressed as drab and dirty as he would be, thankfully, unnoticed.

He wandered aimlessly as he waited for the morning crowds to gather, trying to think of anything but the man who waited for him, deeply asleep, so many meters underneath where he walked. He didn't want to think about if he'd awoke yet, in pain, or if someone had found him. Cassian didn't want to have to worry about him either, and would rather keep building along this growing anger lighting his chest. Jizabel was indeed a fool, and now he was left to pick up after his mess like the spoiled aristocrat he was. Idiot.

Yes. Much better to be angry. Safer.

A half hour later, and he returned to the market to find it starting to bubble and treem with shoppers. Grubby, barefoot children ran amok between the vendors, begging for pecans and roast potatoes while their parents haggled over pork cuts.

Cassian sauntered over to roost near the butcher he'd been eyeing, waiting for an opening and seamlessly pocketing a few turnips and a cabbage along the way. He knew he could surely outrun nearly anyone in the market, but he wasn't confident enough to bet on it. If he got arrested, there would be no hope for Jizabel. Or worse, someone could see where he went, and follow.

He was growing anxious, knowing it wouldn't take long before his presence started to seem suspicious. He tried to look busy, as though he was very interested in purchasing a kettle, but he had to be on constant watch of the butcher. With a hawk's gaze, he watched the man hurriedly slice off a sizeable chunk of fresh beef for his customer, tossing aside the fatty edges, and Cassian could see plenty of red scraps still clinging to the inedible white. Though technically waste, it would be given to feed farmer's dogs as scraps later, and he could still make a few coins from it.

It had been so long since he had anything even resembling meat, and while he knew Jizabel stomach would not grumble with a craving as his did, he would be too out of it to even care. It would be nourishing, though, which was the important part.

Finally, the butcher turned his back to weigh out and wrap the order, and Cassian bolted. His new body wasn't as limber or agile as his childlike one had been, though the past months had been spent improving what he now lacked. He couldn't run as far as he once had, but a sudden sprint? Cassian could still handle.

He didn't take the time to select the best scraps, as he's have liked, but simply wrapped his hands around whatever he first reached, held them under his arm and ran. Behind him, he could hear the butcher screaming after him indignantly, obviously pissed at the propect of loosing so much as one shilling in profit to a street urchin.

Cassian felt for the bastard, he did, but frankly, couldn't care much at the time. He had food, the most important item off his list. The rest could wait.

He jumped down the drainage pipe that was his front door, and continued his run down the metal grating. His footsteps clanged and clambered, and he wondered how far away the echoes could be heard. Wondered is Jizabel was awake enough to hear them.

The answer was a simple and definite no. Once he found his nook among the weaving labyrinth of tunnels and drains, he found Jizabel still deeply out. A quick glance around and he felt sure no one had been around to disturb him, or their home. He supposed the fact that Jizabel remained safe and untouched was enough evidence.

Cassian set to work immediately, his own stomach in knots with hunger. As far away from anything flammable and as near the main passages as he could manage, he lit another fire in a small pan, setting a grate atop it, and another pan.

As he started the kettle of water to heat, he finally surveyed what he had. Three smaller chunks of beef fat, and a chunk of bone. What sort, he couldn't tell, but whatever it was would boil wonderfully into a broth. With two mouths to feed, though, the concoction would be weak and watery, but he had to make do. Boiled cabbage thickened the stew.

Though he could see almost to the bottom of the pot, his mouth watered at the smell, one he knew would ordinarily repulse the doctor, who avoided meat until absolutely physically necessary.

"Ah well. He's on drugs. What he won't know can't hurt him!" In a buoyant mood from the promise of a tempting meal, Cassian ladled the broth into two chipped mugs, not terribly clean, but passable. He gulped his down so quick he scarcely tasted it, but the warm satisfaction in his stomach was enough.

After practically licking his cup clean, he picked up the other, extinguished his cooking fire and made his way back to his new charge.

Jizabel seemed to have been stirring, if only slightly. Previously neatly tucked in, he now had a scattering of thin blankets tossed about him, including the shawl he'd wrapped round his neck and head.

He knelt, sitting the cup at Jizabel's side. "Jizabel? Are you waking?"

Slowly, Jizabel opened his eyes, though Cassian was quick to asses that he wasn't truly seeing anything. He peered lazily in Cassian's direction, but seemed to find him no more interesting than the dripping stone ceiling, where he next diverted his fractured attention.

Close enough for Cassian. He hauled Jizabel up by his shoulders, probably a little rougher than he should have been, but seeing as Jizabel made no sounds of pain, the morphine was obviously still working.

Cassian slid behind him, to hold him against his chest; he'd have to hold the cup to his lips, as he owned no suitable cutlery. He didn't mind though, especially once he realized how warm the hollow where Jizabel had been snuggled was, and how warm Jizabel himself was, curled up against him. After so long in the dark hollows of the underground, he somehow adapted to the cold, scarcely felt it.

"Come on, Jizabel. Time to be up now," he coaxed, and held the mug under Jizabel's drooping nose, hoping the smell would rouse him.

A gusty breath was all he got, but he could see Jizabel's still-glassy eyes peeping open.

Sure the morphine was still heavy in his blood, Cassian was a little nervous about forcing broth down his throat, but right now, he didn't have much choice. He knew Jizabel needed the food, something warm in his stomach.

Balancing the man against his chest, he tipped his head back and supported it on his shoulder. Awkwardly moving, he raised the cup to Jizabel's lips, and watched instinct take over. The hot broth lapped against Jizabel's parted lips, and slowly he sipped, getting scarcely more than a taste on his tongue. It was a long process, tiring Cassian's arms from Jizabel's weight, but eventually the cup ran empty, and only about a quarter had ended up spilt down Jizabel's chin. He considered that good enough.

With no water to spare for a good cleaning, he dampened a rag just enough to clear away the mess before it could soak through the bandages at his throat. Keeping his gash and the bullet wound at his shoulder clean was his number one priority right now, and doing so down here wasn't going to be easy. Once again, Cassian felt overwhelmed with just how pressing his situation was. A place to live, a new shelter, something warmer…he didn't know where to find such things. Just managing enough food to eat had been a challenge, and a draining one. Just a few hours with Jizabel, and already he was so tired.

Cassian decided whatever dilemma's he was facing, could wait an hour or three. With another light dose of painkillers, Jizabel ought to be out for a while, and a nap sounded so tempting right now…he wasn't like Jizabel, who would stay up till sunup to work on his research, neglecting to remember to eat for days on end. No, Cassian loved laziness when he could afford it, and he thought he'd eeearned a good snooze.

He uncapped a clean syringe, and drew into it the smallest dose he felt reasonable. There was so little there, in comparison to Jizabel's condition, and he knew he had to stretch it, make it last.

As he slid the needle deftly into the crook of Jizabel's arm, Zenopia's parting words rang through his head again. A pious warning for such a small man, advice that would tell him to simply put Jizabel to sleep, like taking a farm dog out behind the barn to shoot. A mercy, he'd said. Show the boy some mercy.

Cassian snorted, rubbing his thumb over the small bead of blood that welled as he removed the needle. Mercy! As though Cassian wasn't the only one in Jizabel's life who'd actually shown the bastard any kindness, even when he deserved none. He took him away from Alexis, a man who beat him, left deeply etched scars into his skin, and did God knows what to his child behind locked doors. It was he who was giving Jizabel the only fighting chance he had in life. Staying at Delilah (assuming Delilah had actually been left standing) was a death sentence postponed, whereas escape offered a chance to finally live.

'But this isn't how Jizabel would want to live,' sounded another voice, one that sounded suspiciously like his own, still the high, childish lilt he knew all his life, not the deeper sounds made by Cassandra's throat.

He shook his head, clearing the doubtful him from his mind. There was no way he could safely assume what Jizabel would want. When he thought about it, he really didn't know the young doctor all that well. Basics and need-to-know was it, really. Yet even with the limited knowledge he possessed, Cassian knew he'd seen more intimately into Jizabel than anyone else, and on a deeper level understood that he could never have touched him so closely if he hadn't willed it, even a little, even unconsciously. Jizabel's walls were high and made of stone, yet the very foundation was prone to crumble. A house could be guarded at every door, but allowed for little privacy if you never closed the curtains.

Who was to say that some day Jizabel wouldn't thank him? Wouldn't come to realize that his life with Alexis had been nothing but a lie? Cassian was sure he already knew it, but was too frightened to be able to admit it, even to himself. Perhaps being free from those chains, knowing Alexis was dead, gone, and could never hurt him again, would provide the man with the strength he needed to finally blossom.

Who was Zenopia to tell him Jizabel wouldn't want to live? He supposed the attempted suicide was rather…telling of Jizabel's desire to survive, but that was before, when Jizabel thought he had no future anyway. He'd seen the light in his eyes before he'd cut, the odd way he'd looked at Cassian, as though seeing his face in a way he never had before.

Jizabel would adapt, he convinced himself as he hid the morphine in a nook in the bricks. Jizabel was surely stronger than he seemed, held like a butterfly under his father's thumb. There was strength in him, he was sure, that would flourish, give him the courage to face a word where he may never speak, where he'd have to finally let go of a fairy tale he didn't want to abandon.

He had to be that strong, because Cassian was too much of a coward to let him go.

)o(


	4. Chapter 4

House hunting was a task Cassian quickly decided he didn't care for. In a city where very few people actually owned their own property, preferring instead to rent from rickety drunk landladies, there were precious few buildings suitable for Cassian's purposes. He fancied he wasn't as picky as most potential tenants. He couldn't possibly care less what square his home was facing, or if it was within walking distance of the fashionable shops. No, all he cared about was that it be abandoned and standing, yet even those minimal necessities seemed to be unattainable.

He'd been gone upwards of four hours, he guessed, prowling the side streets and dingiest alleyways of London. Another hour, perhaps, before Jizabel would start to break free of his morphine induced coma. In that time, he'd scaled two scores of buildings, peeking in to gage it's current habitat staus, and time again he left in frustration as he found some other band of street urchins already making home or, worse, to find he'd been peeking in on some lower class family minding their own business.

By now, he was almost back to where he'd started, perhaps five blocks away from the sewer drain he called his front door. Another two blocks west was the peasants market, so he knew if there was any area to find a dilapidated building, it was here.

He sighed, and removed his outermost jacket, throwing it over his shoulder. The air had still be crisp with morning's chill when he left, but now it was mid morning and the rising sun still proclaimed summer. The sweat starting to pool down his back wasn't making this task any more pleasant, and he wasn't thrilled with it to begin with. He'd been fucking peachy in his sewers, thank you.

But, it couldn't be helped, he supposed.

The newest row of building he came upon were sorry sights indeed. Before the population boom, this would have been nearer the center of the city, but now it seemed to be its own little borough on the fringe. Good a place as any.

He could tell immediately the street wasn't completely deserted. He saw dingy colored dresses strung across some of the windows; their patchwork edging and stained aprons showed it was a very poor neighborhood, even among England's lower class.

As he wandered down the streets, he decides almost immediately he liked the…neighborhood, for lack of a better term. Such scroungy, half open homes would surely lead to a community that was tight knit yet weary. They probably wouldn't like him moving in to their area, but neither would be make any comments on odd goings-on.

It had been a business district; these were not buildings made to suit families. Peeled and broken painted windows were the ghostly apparitions of butcher shops, haberdashers and a women's clothing shop. Now, they were the makeshift roofs for those a step above street living.

He approved, quite a bit, and hoped to find at least one desecrated shop still hollow.

He found salvation in a bakery. A former birthplace of sweet confectionaries and hot bread to now house a mute murderer and an ex circus midget. He could almost laugh, if he had any sense of humor at the moment.

The lower level bakery was at the end of he row, and though currently abandoned, he could see evidence of fairly recent habitation. The ragtag dishes didn't have nearly as much dust as the darkest corners had. Whoever had been living here though was long gone. Dead, probably, or just a drifter. He prayed for the latter, because the former carried the risk of finding his bones.

Cassian appreciated the relative quiet in the filthy room. The sewers were always clanging with cold pipes and draining water, but here he was too far away from the busy streets and carts that polluted the air with such noise. More importantly, he was sure Jizabel would enjoy the peace. He'd need it, to recover.

Little clouds of dirt stirred around his boots with each footfall, but he didn't mind. Cassian made his way to the back of the store, noting that all the cabinetry was missing their handles and drawer pulls. Must have been some sort of wanted metal. Oh well, no bother to him. Interior decorating was of little consequence with as heavy a burden as he carried.

The spiral staircase in the back was a bother and, really, inconvenient and impractical, but he supposed at the time of construction it would have been a lovely piece in fashion. Whatever. All Cassian cared about was being able to carry Jizabel up the stairs to the second floor; they're be much safer up there.

All through his self guided tour, Cassian found he could only become so invested with surveying the "house". Something was keeping him from making plans too deeply into stone, and though he couldn't pinpoint what, he suspected it had to do with the prickling possibility that Jizabel may not even be alive when he returned to the sewers.

He felt like the country's biggest ass when his first thought was how wasted his morning would have been if that was the case.

It wasn't that he didn't' care desperately for Jizabel still; his emotions couldn't have been so fleeting, not considering the desperation with which he sought to free the boy. He did care, he loved him, he was like a…a son to him, he supposed, unable to find a more suiting classification. But as of now, his current situation didn't allow much for sentimentality. He'd grown up in the lower class; death was a norm. Mortality was lowering, but still an everyday fact of life, and he'd learned at a young age not to become too attached to those lying in sickbeds.

However, he was not completely devoid of hope of compassion, and as long as Jizabel still breathed, there was a chance he could still be tomorrow, or a week from now. And if that was the case, then this mornings tasks were al too necessary.

He took a glimpse around the upstairs; one room, that seemed as though it use to be two, possibly three, but the walls were too crumbled to really tell. Being above a shop, he knew instantly this would have been where the baker and his family had lived; there was even a tin hip bath and a large iron bedframe still tucked against the far wall. Must be heavy as hell, considering no one had carted it off to sell.

Through all the dirt, cobwebs and haze, Cassian smiled, ready as he'd ever be to move home. Something about the rundown, decrepit building he stood in charmed him…perhaps he wasn't as fond of the sewer as he'd convinced himself he was.

)o(

With newly long legs he still almost vainly admired, Cassian sprinted down the winding stone tunnels, mentally ticking off each turn so as not to become lost in the catacomb like labyrinth. In each pocket was a hot cabbage roll, and a ham bone up his sleeve. He planned to pour as much nourishment down Jizabel's throat as he could before he was lucid enough to resist meat again, stubborn ass. As scant as the broth was, he'd seen Jizabel's former eating habits; they weren't much better.

A bleary pair of purple eyes were there to welcome him home, ones still dampened by sleep, cold, and a distinct drop in painkillers.

"Hey, Jizabel," he greeted, not sure how lucid his little organ-bathing buddy actually was. A slow blink was his only response, the younger man being far too weak to accomplish anything more tiring.

"I found us a house, Jizabel," he continued. "An old bakery, only a few city blocks from here. You'll like it. It's much warmer than down here in the sewers. Smells better to."

Still his roommate made no motion that he could hear. Just stared quite blankly in Cassians direction, and he found his squinting, tired eyes a little unnerving. Not that they were creepy by themselves, no. He'd seen much crueler, colder stares from Disraeli. He'd been "hunting" with him before. Here, rather, it was the distant lack of almost all recognition that unsettled Cassian. For the first time he wondered if, even if he survived, if Jizabel would be…all there. So much bloodloss, so long a time with a compromised airway…

Cassian shuddered at the thought of having to deal with the repercussions that could bring. He didn't want to think of them, dwell on them. He wanted to focus his energy on something more positive, like soup, and cabbage buns.

"There are tall windows upstairs," he continued as he nursed along a small fire. "There's not much to see out of them, I'm afraid, but they'll let sunlight in, especially in the evenings. They even still have glass, by some miracle. I…I know it isn't what you're use to, but we'll make do, you'll see."

On and on Cassian prattled, for an hour or more, telling tales to a man who might not even be able to hear him.

Dinner was a quiet affair, Jizabel not seeming to pay any mind to Cassian as he dribbled the smallest spoonfuls of broth into his mouth. He was sure it was physical response more than will that made him swallow; Jizabel didn't seem lucid enough for even that much reaction.

It took an hour to drain the bowl, and it left Cassian feeling almost as empty. He set the now cold bowl down at his bedside, wishing he'd stolen three buns instead of just two. Or five. He was starving. He needed larger meals, if he was going to be playing nursemaid.

He sighed, and leaned back against the cold, damp stone behind him, trying not to disturb Jizabel. Again, he'd scooped him to lay against his chest, and he seemed comfy enough that way. Still so drowsy though. He hadn't made one complaint of pain that evening, though he knew the morphine must be out of his system.

With Jizabel's body heat starting to seep through his layers, Cassian unfurled a few of his own. He tossed two scarves near the bowl, followed by a shawl, and his gloves.

"Ya did good, Jizabel," he murmured tiredly. "I promise I'll get you something more filling once you can handle it.

No words, of course. Just a long, somewhat wheezy sigh. He shivered again at the odd whistling, imagining gusts of breath forced past his stitches…

Although it was himself so shaken and not his patient, he started to brush over Jizabel's matted, bloodcaked hair all the same.

"You're alright, Jizabel," Cassian cooed a little awkwardly. He wasn't use to such saccharine tones. He'd rather bitch the kid out. Seemed to be more effective. "You're going to get better. I don't know where we'll go, but we'll go somewhere nice. Maybe out into the country, near the…farms…"

Cassian paused, letting his words die out as his fingertips brushed over Jizabel's cheek. The warmth glowing from his skin…Cassian immediately lay his hand over Jizabel's brow, and winced at the unmistakable sign of a fever.

"God damn it!" he cursed loud enough to echo down the corridors. He slunked out from behind Jizabel, and tried to ease him back down onto the makeshift mattress as easily as possible. He took a closer look at those eyes that had met him upon his return home. What he assumed was a fog of painkillers and bloodloss now much more resembled a glassy, fevered haze.

'How did I not notice?' Cassian berated himself mentally as he paced around their room, trying to figure out what to do first. He'd had his gloves on since returning, to try and guard his hands from the frost. All the same, that was no excuse. He knew how severe Jizabel's wound were! His imminent death was always playing in the back of his mind, he should have checked for signs of infection the moment he got home!

He did now, and oh yes, it was apparent as soon as he undid the bandages. The gauzy strips were stuck to the wound in several places, adhered by drying bubbles of blood and pus. The wound itself was inflamed, angry red and swollen to almost surround each suture, and Cassian felt queasy just looking at the mess.

"Jizabel.." he sighed. He didn't really have anything else to say. TO him, as this moment, Jizabel was likely good as dead. At Delilah, had something like this afflicted him, he'd be in the hospital ward, under the best care. He'd have medication, antibiotics, fluids…but Delilah was in ruins. Even if it still stood, going back was NOT an option under an circumstance. He considered it a mercy, really; he'd sooner Jizabel die than have to be subject to that organization another day.

That didn't solve the current crisis, though. As he hurriedly unwrapped his dressings, he tried to go over any possibilities he had at his disposal. He needed hot water, something to disinfect the wound, clean bandages. He just felt blessed he still had plenty of morphine. Not that Jizabel seemed to be in any pain, under his fever, but if it were to clear, he'd need it.

Still, knowing what he needed and actually getting it were two different things entirely. He knew boiling water would kill the bacteria, but all the water he had access to was made thick with rust, mud and debris, and he had nothing to use as a sieve. And what was he to use as clean bandages?

There wasn't any choice; he was going to have to go topside. But that meant leaving Jizabel, which had already been hard enough the times he'd had to do it thus far. Throw in a now raging infection and it was almost too hard to fathom. Jizabel likely didn't have much time left, and for Cassian, it was a gamble. Did he leave to go hunting at the surface, to steal supplies to treat a malady that was probably a hopeless cause? Or did he stay, and try to help Jizabel's passing be comfortable, yet always wonder what he could have done?

His newly discovered selfishness was really all it took to make the decision for him. If Jizabel could make it through the bloodloss and surgery, then surely…or at least, maybe, he could pull through this.

He didn't even pause to whisper a soft goodbye to Jizabel; instead, he swept his discarded clothing up in a rush and sprinted down the dripping tunnels, hoping Jizabel had enough strength to hold on until he got back, at least.

)o(

In his year apprenticing the doctor, Cassian had learned to finely hone his craft of deceit. He'd never been a bad liar, not by any stretch, but watching Jizabel's perfectly concealed masks and painted words had given him a true appreciation for trickery. The way Jizabel could seamlessly slip form one persona to the other, into a personality full of pep, sunshine and other such un-Jizabel like traits was admirable. Knowing him like he did now, he found his portrayal of one Dr. Allen to be side-splitting.

Having watched him so closely from the shadows, Cassian liked to think he'd picked up a pointer or two, including Jizabel's dedication to his craft. What else would compel an otherwise sane and healthy man to gouge his forearm open on a throwing knife?

Which was exactly what Cassian did, just outside the front steps of a clinic. Having also picked up his share of medical knowledge, he also knew exactly where to slice to avoid both major arteries and vital muscles he'd need in the immediate future.

The scene he caused upon stumbling into the clinic wasn't half bad, if he was to critique himself.

"Please, someone! I-I need a doctor!" he gasped, rushing up to the makeshift front desk. He could tell immediately this was a slum's physician, little more tan a village apothecary, but he and Jizabel had ramshackled this part of town enough to know they at least had the basics. Most of their patients were bloodied up in bar fights and trade brawls, so bandages and iodine would be quite fully stocked, he was sure.

The nurse at the desk all but shrieked at the sight of him, though probably more from his raucous, startling entrance than the wound itself; she hadn't even seen it. But that was his plan; make it look as painful and bloody as possible, to expedite his impromptu visit. All he had to do was pant a few times, and act as though he was becoming overwhelmed with vertigo, and the pretty young wench scurried to the back as quick as her chubby legs would carry her.

In a matter of minutes, Cassian was seated in a rather dated but clean room, acting weak and dizzy for the doctors benefit.

"And how'd ya say this happened?" he asked gruffly, no doubt noting the wound wasn't all that deep.

"I work for a fishmonger," he lied smoothly. "I just started, and I'm not good with the knife, so…"

The tale, concocted in just the 12 minutes it took to race to the peasants hospital, was well crafted enough to pass. He had a strong enough odor about him to pass as seafood waste, and the grungier and more disease-ridden the cause of the wound, the more careful the doctor would be about a thorough cleaning.

It seemed to work. The doctor said nothing as he doused the cut with hot water, and disinfectant. He was probably use to dumber excuses, considering he was neighbored on both sides by a pub.

"Do you think it'll get infected?" he asked in a wavery voice.

The doctor grunted, and just continued to wrap linen strips around the wound.

Cassian was persistent. "Because I've got 7 kids at home, and my wife is pregnant with our 8th. If anything were to happen to me, I don't know what they'd do. And this job doesn't pay very well so I can only afford this one appointment, and I wouldn't be given the time off to fill a prescription anyway, so I'd have no way to tre-"

Growing obviously impatient with this apparent wuss of a man he was tending, the doctor tied off the bandages much tighter than he suspected he ordinarily might, and hurriedly rumaged through a cabinet to produce a dark glass bottle of iodine. 

"I won't charge you for it if you learn how to use a damn blade," he scoffed, unimpressed with both Cassian's fish-gutting skills and his lack of any perceivable masculinity. His constant thank you's and grateful gushings weren't any more welcome.

He finally got a reaction though when he bolted from the clinic without paying a dime.

)o(


	5. Chapter 5

Cassians legs were starting to ache from the overexersin he'd put them through the past 24 hours, but he barely noticed as he sprinted once more down the slick stone floors to his little sewery abode. Twice his boots lost traction in the deepest puddles, the rock underneath worn smooth by a decade of trickleing water, but both times he managed to catch himself. Thank God. It was hard enough getting the antiseptic the first time around; to slip and shatter the bottle now would be more than his already frazzled nerves could take.

The dim glow of the one lamp he kept lit was as comforting a sign of home as any. Just a few long strides and one turn away, he followed the seeping amber light where it bounced off the glistening wet walls. He ran, he clung to the jar, and, a rarer action than he normally sought, he prayed. To find Jizabel alive, and strong enough to keep up a fight.

He was relieved to find at least the first of his otherworldly pleas to be met; Jizabel hadn't moved at all since he left, but he hadn't expected him to. Being so heavily injured and under a dozen layers of coats and blankets, he knew he didn't have the strength to so much as roll over, even if he didn't have the fever to contend with as well.

"Jizabel…" Cassian murmured, once again trying to keep his normally crass voice soft-toned and comforting. He set his apothecary spoils beside their makeshift bed and shed his gloves. His hands were damp with sweat, and he wiped them on his pants quickly before stroking one down Jizabel's cheek. He hoped the panic wasn't showing on his face as he felt his skin just as alight as it had been an hour ago.

Instead, he tried to smile warmly, and hide his worry away. His body was fighting the infection, at least. That was reassuring...save for the fact that it seemed to be losing.

A harsh shake of his head. No, none of that. Not now. He needed to get another look at that throat.

He cooed to Jizabel as he tipped his head up, and unwound the only layer of bandages he'd left on his throat. His own skin was starting to flare red at the sound of his voice; Cassian was not one to coo, to simper or coddle. Especially not to Jizabel. If he survives, Cassian thought to himself, I'll be screaming at him for a month to get him unuse to this shit.

Oh well. He blamed instinct. The sick did that to people, like small animals and newborns. Apparently, even murderers with their names on wanted posters would elicit such a response if they looked pitiful enough.

And oh, did he. His skin was ashen behind the flamed red patches on his cheeks, framed by his matted, bloody tangle of hair that he usually kept perfectly combed and tied. As he doused the wound with heated water, he wondered what Jizabel would think if he saw himself now, and smirked slightly in malicious pleasure at the thought. He couldn't say the doctor was especially vain, but he did keep himself groomed to a very high standard. Whether that was his own requirements or those imposed by his father, Cassian wouldn't say for sure. Either way, Cassian remembered only a handful of times he'd seen Jizabel in a physical disarray, and that was usually accompanied by an emotional breakdown.

Warm rivlets of clean water turned peculiar shades of pink and crimson as they trickled down the sides of Jizabel's neck, catching onto the rags that served as his pillow. Cassian watched as the heat from the water seemed to soften his flesh, still swollen tenderly, painfully by the infection raging in his throat. It made him feel a bit queasy, another reaction that filled him with a hateful shame. Dead bodies, blood, pickled organs, fine and dandy. But there was something about the smell of dying skin and pus that didn't play too well with his stomach.

Still, he didn't let it stop him from gently pressing against the stitches, wincing as even more pungent yellow liquid began to flow out.

Briefly, he looked up at Jizabel, hoping he wasn't hurting him too badly, but he made no sounds of pain, only panted. Cassian doubted he was even lucid, but there was little he could do about it anyway. He'd just have to suck it up and take it like a big boy.

'Make daddy proud,' he sneered ironically to himself, and immediately shook his head to dislodge that idea. Alexis Hargreaves was good and dead, and Jizabel aside, the world was better off for it. That man brought pain to too many people, his own sons not least of all. Hell, he didn't even LIKE Cain, but could feel a pang of sympathy for someone Alexis had so cruelly tortured. Jizabel had mentioned him a few times in less than hateful terms, enough for him to know that while Jizabel still saw Cain as the loved and favored child, Alexis enjoyed fucking with him, too.

Another kettle on to heat, a rag soaked in iodine, staining his skin brown. At least Cain escaped, though. He was more likely dead as his daddy now, but at least he'd had a few good years away from Alexis's grip. Jizabel, though…Cassian had to wonder. How much of Jizabel's bloodlust was his own sadistic need for a taboo pleasure, and how much was shoved onto him by his father?

He didn't have time to think about this, damn it! Jizabel's deranged psychology was too deep a pond to just toe his way in, and he didn't feel like a swim right now. He'd worry about his mental stability and his likelihood of waking up with a scalpel to his throat once Jizabel actually survived.

It was method and almost comforting; soaking his throat over and over until the blood ran bright red, not a tinge of pink. Whether or not it did any good, he wouldn't be able to say now. He was unconscious, so he hoped he could lie to himself well enough to call it sleep and get a few hours of his own. He's fucking earned it, so far as he was concerned.

He began to tidy up a bit, wearily, trying not to ponder the worthlessness of cleaning a sewer home. Not like he was trying to scrape the mold off the walls, just tuck his valuable away for the night.

He listened to the quiet fire hiss as he doused it, too afraid to leave it burning all night. As it quited, though, he was made aware of just how loud and grating Jizabel's breathing was. In and out he gasped, as though dragging his lungful past a gravel road.

Cassian felt that now familiar irritation rise in his chest again, that spiteful selfishness that he'd grown so use to these past days. How was he to sleep with THAT wheezing in his ear?

Guilt prodded the back of his mind, but he pushed it back as forcefully as he could while he toed his boots off and crawled into bed next to Jizabel. He thought of how the doctor would squawk and shriek at such a platonic arrangement in better health, and even that irritated him somehow. He didn't know. He was too tired to care. He was going through a lot more trouble than he ever intended to for Jizabel, and laying the blane on a sick man on death's door seemed as good a tension reliever as any.

Sleep claimed him all the same, even with that wheezing next to his ear.

)o(

Cassian wasn't even fully awake in the morning when he rolled over to feel Jizabel's forehead. Still burning hot. He was sure his skin was still tinged crimson, but with no light yet to see, he couldn't be sure.

Groggily he pushed himself up, and searched for the matchbook he kept in a small pouch fashioned from oilskin. The light bloomed into the darkness comfortingly, and blossomed further as it took light in the oil lamp. Yes, he was indeed still in the throws of a fever, but his throat, once Cassian began to prod it, looked somewhat less puffy than it was before. At least, he hoped it did, and it wasn't just wishful thinking. It could very well be, especially considering how tired he still was. The dregs of sleep hadn't left him yet.

"Well, doc, what should we do today? You up for dice?" he joked, mostly because it seemed about the only thing he could do. What other options were there, trapped in a sewr all day playing nurse to Jizabel?

He sighed and dragged himself out of their bed. Their little hole of the world was only about 6 paces in any direction; in two of those, the sewers sprawled off into wide tunnels. On the third, it sloped down to a drainage ditch. Their bed was nestled into a nook in the wall; by the different look of the stone, he could tell it too had once been a tunnel, long since bricked over. Rather like a London intersection, he supposed, but it was home.

In one corner there was a small water jug and a broken shard of mirror. He plucked it up, trying not to slice his hand open, and examined his four day beard; definitely not scruffy enough to warrant a shave yet. Besides, he doubted Cassandra had ever sported a beard, and he quite liked anything that set him apart from that rich ass.

He wondered if Jizabel would even recognize him, once he was lucid. The panic settleing over his face would be hilarious, if he wasn't both weak in his injured state, and deadly in good health. He was sure in Jizabel's warped mind, spending weeks of his life dedicated to Jizabel's care wasn't enough to overlook a new addition to his collection.

Oh well. That was for later. For now, he needed food. It seemed like he couldn't swipe enough. Which was understandable, considering he had another mouth to feed now. He knew he would. But he was also counting on teaching Jizabel to further hone his deceptive skills and learn to panhandle or pickpocket. They'd be living the peasants high life with that. Well, perhaps i-wheeen he got better, he could teach him. But for now, it was back to the market to see what he could swipe for their dinner.

For two days his life revolved around very little else. He snuck out, grabbed a cabbage or a few turnips, brought them back to boil soft enough to spoon feed Jizabel, and tried to kill time. He sharpened his knives to a deadly edge. Patched up the sole of his left boot. Haphazardly stitched his coat seems back together. And worried.

And tried to ignore the fact that he was worrying.

Because Jizabel Disraeli was not someone he should be worrying about. At least not like this. He'd been concerned about him before; the night he threw a fit in his room and Cassian had to dig shards of glass from his ribboned hands. He was concerned. He was concerned every time he saw Jizabel dressed and hair set and smelling like lavender, strolling down the hallways quietly to his father's room. Well, concerned and pissed as hell.

Somehow, though, Cassian's mind set up a large difference between worry and concern. Not that it really mattered, he supposed. Worry, fret, concern, none of it would change this situation, one Cassian still felt a bit of spite at being in.

Worry or no, it was a relief when he awoke only a few hours after crawling into bed one evening, completely soaked, even through all his layers. Still half asleep and now cranky, he turned over, noticing that he'd left the oil lamp lit. He was sort of glad for his mistake, though, as he noticed the light glistening off of Jizabel's sweat-soaked face.

Cassian wiped at his eyes to dislodge the last bit of sleep, as a hopeful well sprung in his chest. He laid his palm over his cheek; warm, still, but cooler, so much cooler.

Relief flooded over him as he threw himself back on his side of the bed, exhaustion mixing with elation and he found himself almost laughing. He contented himself with a heavy, cathartic sigh, though, and flung his covers closer to Jizabel. He was sweating his fever out, and Cassian was intent to help that along. He didn't even mind, now, that he himself was still damp from Jizabel's perspiring.

He left long enough to fetch one pail of water after another, filling his largest kettle with it, and swipe one large pig bone. Other than that, the four hours following were spent at Jizabel's side, bathing his face in tepid, clean water and summoning that sweet voice again.

"See, Jizabel? I told you you'd be fine!" he simpered tiredly. His initial adrenaline burst had long since wore away, but he fought sleep. There wasn't a nee for it now, he reasoned with himself, not with Jizabel's fever breaking. He was going to need a bath soon. He wondered how much of a laundering he could give their bedding…and he'd need clothes, soon, and not just that long nightshirt.

Where a few days ago he was planning where to bury Jizabel, now Cassian had weeks, possibly years of plans to make. It was…overwhelming, to say the very least about it. When he first planned to run away with Jizabel, his ideas were vague but simple. Run away. Live like peasants. Learn a trade, maybe. And find some way of stifling Jizabel's inconvenient bloodlust. Another willing hand was useful to cover their tracks once in a while; Cassian was the last one to be above a kill for their own safely. But Jizabel wasn't exactly the best at concealing his evidence. He could say one good thing about Delilah; they covered Jizabel's ass as often as they asked for it.

But Now Delilah was history, a blessing for them both, even if it did have a few reluctantly admitted drawbacks. But Alexis was dead, and there was no one left to hold Jizabel's chains, save for himself. But again, Cassian didn't quite feel up for a swim yet.

Hours ticks by, and for once, Cassian sorely wishes he hadn't lost the one pocket watch he'd managed to pinch. It would be handy some nights, like these. But also would do him little good. He left long enough to know it was just after dawn now, as Jizabel's breathing began to even out, and his drenching sweat stopped. Another slip against his hand; so much cooler now, Cassian scarcely dared to believe it. It wasn't just his fever; no heat meant no infection, meaning his wound was beginning to heal. And if that was the case, they were out of the worst of it. Not…his hands trembled over the bucket. Not free, yet. Another infection, perhaps, anything that simple could reverse all this work completely.

But for now, Cassian had no reason to think otherwise. He was drained, tired, wanting sleep, but somehow felt reluctant to crawl back into bed until Jizabel awoke.

Thankfully, he didn't have long to wait before Jizabel's eyes opened, lucid and seeing.

)o(

Special thanks to Kare Uta for kicking. My. Butt!


End file.
